A. Michael - Nice Day For A White Wedding

Chapter Two

She called Kit on the train back, and hearing the warmth in his voice as he insisted he’d meet her at the station was a balm.

‘I don’t know, I’m exhausted,’ she sighed, ‘I was just going to walk home from the station.’

‘I’ll get you! Come on, even if it’s just the five minute drive home, I want to see you.’

She’d relented, as she often did in the face of Kit’s enthusiasm. Most days, when she was her best, most Chelsea self, she’d match him quip for quip, egging on his excitement with ideas for new adventures.

Occasionally, when he’d been working on a horrible case that seemed to draw the life out of him, he’d become quiet and soft, and she’d be the one in control, the one caring for him and suggesting things to do. Often, she was relieved at the downtime. Life with Kit was a hundred miles an hour.

Chelsea stumbled out of Kentish Town Station and a car flashed its lights further down. Inside, Kit waved, a huge grin on his face. Chelsea got in the car and looked at him, this kind, gorgeous man who for some strange reason had picked her. Kit was tall, his blond hair shorter now that he was at a big office unlike the unruly mop he had when they first met. His skin was pale, but tanned instantly, his eyes an alarming blue that always looked kind. He had that adorable sloppy look, she noticed, like he’d relaxed for the night. She loved that most, when he took off the expensive suit and left the fancy education at the door so they could curl up in comfy clothes on the sofa to watch a stupid movie. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his collar unbuttoned, and she had never seen something that looked so much like home.

‘Hello, gorgeous.’ He reached for her, capturing her lips briefly. ‘I missed you.’

‘It’s only been a couple of days, you soppy git.’ She grinned as he pulled out into the road. Chelsea paused, feeling like somehow she had to readjust her language to her life.

‘Soppy git indeed,’ he laughed, nodding. ‘I like that. It’s been a long couple of days. I haven’t even seen you since you got the promotion – congratulations, Miss Big Executive.’

‘Why thank you,’ she said, twisting her wrist in a royal impression, ‘and they rewarded me for all my hard work by making me take time off after getting a bigger workload – it’s nuts!’

Kit raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips as he tried to stop the smile on his face.

‘Baby, do you think maybe that’s because you refuse to take your holiday and the accounts team are getting pissed with you?’

‘But still!’ Chelsea huffed. ‘Making me take three weeks in one go! I’m going to be so behind!’

‘You’re probably already ahead into next year, knowing you.’ Kit shook his head, indicating. ‘Want to get some stuff from yours and come to mine?’

Chelsea shrugged. ‘I’ve got some stuff at yours, it’s not like I’ve got to be anywhere tomorrow.’

Kit paused. ‘Yes, unless your charming, exciting, alluring boyfriend missed you so much that he booked a surprise trip for the both of us. Well, a surprise for you, obviously I know about it.’

Chelsea blinked. ‘You managed to get time off?’

‘I spoke to your assistant, who confirmed you had to take your holiday, so I booked three weeks for me too. Charlie can cover me, it’ll be fine.’

‘And you’ve booked something?’ Chelsea wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or exhausted. She’d been quite looking forward to a few days of doing nothing.

‘I booked a short trip with the option for further stuff. It’s all very relaxed though,’ Kit explained, placing a hand on her knee as he parked outside her flat. ‘I thought you’d want to relax, but I know you wouldn’t last longer than two days before climbing the walls.’

Chelsea grinned. ‘I love you.’

Kit’s face lit up. ‘So go pack some clothes.’

‘I’m assuming I’m not going to be told where we’re going?’

‘Pack…light layers? Pretty stuff for evenings. Shoes that can walk on cobblestones. And a swimsuit.’

‘City break meets summer holiday?’

Kit blinked. ‘It’s warmer than here, but you might want a jacket or scarf or something for the evenings. And I’m not saying anything else.’

‘You know I hate being out of control.’ She rolled her eyes, opening the car door.

‘And you know I’ll make it worth it.’

The man was not wrong. His surprises, whilst they tended to mess with Chelsea’s natural need to be in charge, were always flamboyant and unusual. The problem was, she often felt that they were too much, that she didn’t deserve them. Like the private booth on the boat for Valentine’s Day, the weekend away in that castle for her birthday, the extravagant Tiffany box at Christmas. Kit did nothing by halves, but it was at least a comfort that he also seemed to enjoy the simpler things in life too. The pint in a Wetherspoons, the McDonald’s on the way home from some posh work function where they’d both drunk too much and eaten too little. He responded to each of these experiences as if they were adventures, something exciting and unusual. And from what she’d heard of his childhood, they were.

Chelsea let herself into her brightly lit but undeniably cramped studio, stopping to water the sad spider plant by the door and dump the bundle of letters and adverts from her mum’s on the side. She pulled out a few slim-fit dresses and wrapped them in tissue paper, then haphazardly threw in some jeans, tank tops and cardigans. She fished out a bikini, her very favourite white dress with the roses printed on it, and a pair of strappy heels, just in case. She didn’t like not being able to make her methodical lists, but she had to admit, every other time Kit had whisked her away it had been worth it. If she had to trust someone to take control, Kit was the one who could do it. Even if he had to wrestle it from her stiff, cramped fingers.

Chelsea dumped the entirety of her make-up bag into her suitcase (a small leather wheel along that Kit had bought her for the surprise trip to Spain for their first anniversary) along with shoes, and a light coat.

Chelsea normally took care of her clothes, not forgetting that she’d once never even dreamed she might own things that could cost so much. Fifty pounds on a pair of trousers? Teenage Chelsea would have smirked, ‘What, have they got no personality?’

She bundled the case down the stairs and Kit came out to help load it into the car, ever the gentleman. The man couldn’t help but be a cliché sometimes.

‘A woman who packs light, and packs quickly,’ he exclaimed, slamming the boot of the car and enveloping her in his arms. He always smelled spicy, clean like soap but with some masculine undertone she could never distinguish. He smelled like Kit, and that scent was both a turn on and a comfort.

‘Have I mentioned that I missed you?’ His lips captured hers, soft and full as his hands roamed her back, pulling her closer. A passing car honked at them, and Chelsea pulled back laughing, a blush on her cheeks.

‘You might have brought it up,’ she laughed, stepping away to get into the car.

‘ You haven’t.’ He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t you miss my various charms?’

‘I always miss your charms, darling, it’s the dirty clothes on the floor every time I come round that I could do without.’

‘You know I’d never leave my clothes on the floor,’ he gasped dramatically, jumping into the car. It was true, the man was a neat freak. He had a cleaner, Helena, come in once a week to re-clean what he’d already done, and iron his shirts for him. He tried, but never managed to get it right, so admitted it was better to ‘just throw money at the problem’. It made Chelsea uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t identify.